


The Shoebox

by Alliterative_Albatross



Series: Better Love [5]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Bad Spanish, Canon-Typical Behavior, Cockwarming, Ears is starting to get the idea though, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Mentions of sex trafficking, Mild Smut, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Plot, Plot Twists, Reunion Sex, Shopping, Slice of Life, Smut, Soft Javier Peña, these two are still idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29546082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: 'There's no going back from this moment, and frankly, you don't want to.'You make a confession and a resolution. Javi remains ignorant.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Series: Better Love [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073882
Comments: 28
Kudos: 39





	The Shoebox

You steel yourself, squaring your shoulders and taking a deep, bracing breath as you knock on Arturo Delgado’s door. 

Arturo is Ana’s older brother. He lives in a tiny house with a green roof and soft pink shutters at the outskirts of Bogotá. It’s cute in a way that reminds you a little of a watermelon back home, and part of you really appreciates how Colombian culture seems to embrace color in a way that people in the States are loathe to do.

The bright yellow door swings open, and you’re greeted by 5’10” of stony cold man. You can’t help taking just half a step backward. Arturo Delgado isn’t huge, but still, he towers over you, and his expression of calculated, cool disinterest does nothing to assuage your discomfort. 

It definitely doesn’t help that he refuses to speak English in your presence. 

_“Hola,”_ you say awkwardly, doing your best not to fidget like a child. _“Estoy aqui por Ana.”_

Jesus, you hope you got that right. 

Arturo nods, disappearing into the dimly lit house and opening the door wide in silent invitation. You step carefully inside, your eyes automatically roving the cramped living space, searching out any hint of a threat. 

Some instincts are impossible to kill.

* * *

“Ana!” Arturo shouts as the door slams behind you. You manage to keep from jumping at the sound, but still, your entire body tenses, and you force yourself to relax, exhaling a deep breath through your nose. You glance back to Arturo, who is watching you suspiciously. 

Part of you thinks that he must enjoy rattling you, the asshole. 

You very carefully avoid looking at the little closet opposite of the front door. The first time you’d visited, it had been wide open, displaying an array of guns. Big, scary guns. One them you’re almost certain was an AK-47. 

It had sent a chill down your spine then, and it still does now. According to Bill, illegal weapons trafficking is as rampant as the cocaine trade in Colombia, so it’s not a stretch of the imagination to assume that Arturo has some shady connections. 

You try very hard not to think about your own gun that very suspiciously lacks a serial number...

What worries you is how secretive Arturo is about it. That first day, he had slammed the closet door shut so forcefully that it had rattled every single window in the tiny house. From then on, he’d regarded you with thinly veiled hostility, refusing to speak to you directly unless he has no choice in the matter, his eyes flashing dangerously each time he looks in your direction.

Since then, you try to plan your visits with Ana on days that you know you can get out of his house. It’s obvious that both you and Arturo are more comfortable with this arrangement. 

You haven’t bothered mentioning it to Javi, either. Since the bombing, he’s been fiercely protective of you, almost to the point of paranoia. His concern is sweet, but it also grates heavily on your nerves. He’s made no secret of the fact that he’s uncomfortable with you making the 20 minute trek to Ana’s new place, so in the interest of keeping things sailing smoothly between you, you tend to time your visits with Ana for when you know Javi will be in Medellín. 

That thought sends a little pang of guilt shooting through you. Javi had given you your gun for situations just like these, has insisted multiple times that you bring it along whenever you’re alone in Bogotá, but the idea just niggles at you in a way you can’t explain. Sure, you could take a life if you had to, and yeah, things in Bogotá are spiraling right now. Javi’s not wrong to be concerned. 

Still, you’d rather not put yourself in that position unless you have to, so the gun stays at home when Javi is out of town, and everybody is happier for it.

And you’d definitely elected to skip sharing your observations about Arturo and his arsenal closet and his shitty, suspicious attitude. 

What Javi doesn’t know can’t hurt him. 

Arturo catches your eye, and oh, shit, in your absent contemplation, your gaze had flown straight to that fucking closet where you’d first seen his guns. 

God, you’re a moron. 

Arturo shoots you a glance that is far more pointed than any innocent man should be able to generate. He doesn’t trust you, that much is obvious. “Ana!” he shouts again, shifting deftly so that he’s blocking your line of sight to the door with his body. _“Tu amiga gringa esta aqui!”_

 _“Ya voy!”_ Ana’s voice answers distantly. 

You breathe a deep sigh of relief. Being alone with Arturo makes you both a little jumpy. 

Ana clambers down the stairs. “Hey,” she says softly, an apology in her eyes.

Something drops in your chest at her expression. That ingrained bubbliness that defines her personality has been missing in the two months since the bombing, and her smile, wide as it is, doesn’t touch her eyes.

“You ready?” you ask, extending your arms to wrap her in a tight hug.

Ana relaxes against you for just a second, then pulls away. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

* * *

A day out with Ana is a full on cultural experience. 

Not just a Colombian experience, either. You’re shit at this girl stuff. To you, shopping is a chore. Alone, you tend to move efficiently, with a carefully calculated plan of attack in mind. Shoes. Underwear. Towels. Check. Check. Check. It’s a get in, get out attitude that has served you well - and saved you money - ever since you can remember. 

Ana is far more informal in her approach, flitting enthusiastically from display to display, picking up a funky tee shirt here, stopping to gasp over a beautiful purse there.

Today, you don’t mind it one bit. You could both use the distraction.

“What do you think?” Ana asks, whirling around. 

You snort. Ana is wearing a massive floppy hat. The brim falls over her forehead, partially obscuring her eyes, which are hidden by giant mirrored shades. A thick maroon scarf wound around her delicate neck completes the look.

The whole ensemble absolutely dwarfs her. 

“It’s super hot.” Ana does look good all bundled up like that, sexy, mysterious. You crank a teasing brow. “If you’re a villainess in a spy film.”

“Who says I’m not?” Ana claps back, shooting you a sly look. It’s quite a feat, behind those glasses. 

Something niggles at you. You can’t stop your mind from immediately flashing back to Arturo and his ridiculous gun. 

You shake the stupid thought away. Living in Colombia has made you paranoid. “Am I in danger?” you ask impishly. 

Ana bumps your shoulder. “Not as long as you stick with me.”

You snort. “Well, that’s not going to be a problem,” you say, suddenly serious. “Somebody’s got to help me translate, you know.”

“So true.” Ana unwinds the scarf and folds it neatly back on its display. You notice that she keeps the glasses. “You’re hopeless, Ears.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

“ _Perdón.”_ The man who taps your shoulder looks haggard. There’s a sad, almost desperate glint in his eyes. He crams a sheet of paper into your hand. “ _Has visto a esta joven?”_

You catch enough of what he’s saying to know that he’s looking for a someone. Your eyes fall to the flyer. The girl who looks up at you is little more than a child, in her early teens, maybe. She smiles sweetly, her eyes glittering enthusiastically even from the cheap black and white photocopy. 

**Adelina Mandes** , the font at the top screams. 

Something twists in your heart, and you look at him. _“No, señor.”_ You grimace at your shitty Spanish, wishing you could say more, but knowing that even fluency wouldn’t solve his problems. “ _Lo siento.”_

He nods sharply, turning away. 

Ana looks over your shoulder, seeing the paper in your hands. _“Seguiremos buscando, señor,”_ she calls to the man.

 _“Gracias.”_ He presses his lips into a tight grimace of acknowledgement, then ambles over to a group of teens who are clustered near the arcade. “ _Perdón_. _Perdón_.”

“Another one.” Ana sighs deeply, that familiar brokenness creeping back into her eyes.

“Another?” You know that kidnappings have been an ongoing problem in Colombia. Chalk it up to another of Escobar’s many sins. But something about Ana’s expression implies that you’re missing some important context. 

Ana’s eyes cut away. “Sex trafficking,” she spits, rolling her bottom lip into her mouth in a gesture that gives away her discomfort. “It’s disgusting. It’s always the young, pretty girls that they want.”

You heart stutters to a stop, and you look back down at the face of Adelina. She seems innocent, happy. “Jesus Christ.”

Ana scoffs. “Even he can’t help us, Ears.” She shifts, adjusting her bags on her shoulder. “Escobar has plenty to answer for,” she says in a bitter voice, her expression flat and distant in a way that worries you. “Let’s just hope somebody reminds him of his place sooner, rather than later.”

You have to stop to catch your breath at that. A thousand thought swamp your brain, and you stop dead in the center of the walkway in an effort to sort through them all. That familiar dread washes over you, along with a fuckton of confusion. 

Of course, Ana is angry. Many Colombians are. In the two months since the first bombing, Bogotá has been turned upside down. More people are turning up dead every day. The city is deserted after dark. Masked men stalk the streets, openly armed with submachine guns. It’s impossible to tell who is allied with whom; who is a friend, and who might hunt you down. Gunfire shatters the silence of the night. The wail of sirens is no longer a call to attention; nobody seems to bat an eye at ambulances and firetrucks anymore.

It’s a strange thing to contemplate as a gringa. On the one hand, you have inside information that Pablo Escobar is directly responsible for the terror that chokes Bogotá’s people in a vice grip. Part of you wonders if Ana knows more than she should on that end. And that’s an ominous thought. 

On the other, you’re a stranger in this country. As empathetic as you are to its people, there are things that you can’t possibly understand about life here, no matter badly you wish to. Ana has been incredibly gracious to you, befriending you at her own inconvenience, patiently correcting your shitty Spanish, offering to be your tour guide and teacher. But Ana can’t teach you a lifetime in Colombia in a few short weeks, even if she were willing to try. That experience can only be earned.

Who are you to decide what she should or shouldn’t know?

Ana is right to be angry, no doubt. Her own father had died a horrible death through no fault of his own. He’d just been at the wrong place at the wrong time, working hard in his drug store just like he had every single day of his life. Providing for his family. 

Your heart still breaks for Emilio. He was a kind man, a good man. His death was needless, a tragic waste, and you’re angry about it, too. 

Your thoughts turn to the man who had offered you Adelina’s flier. You wonder if he is a father, frantic and desperate, grieving the loss of his daughter. 

It’s unfair in the worst way, a fucking atrocity. Colombians are desperate. Justifiably so. Most of them are people just like any other people in the world - they only want to live their lives free of fear. 

With Pablo Escobar in the picture, that’s impossible. 

Indecision and confusion swirl in your gut. Your instincts are screaming at you that Ana and Arturo know more than they’re saying. At the very least, they sympathize with Los Pepes, and deep in your heart, you know that they’re not wrong to. 

Somebody does need to stick it to Pablo. 

But then, your mind turns back to Javi, working late hours in the streets of Medellín, a city that’s even more dangerous than Bogotá at the moment. Any run in between him and the Los Pepes vigilantes could be lethal, and with the leak in Search Bloc, a run in is nearly inevitable. 

And the mere thought of that rocks you to your core. 

‘Really, we’re all on the same side,’ you think to yourself. 

It’s a hell of a conundrum. Is violence the answer? 

Maybe. You won’t deny that it’s certainly been effective. Escobar seems to be on the defensive now. But then again, a desperate, defensive Escobar is just that much more dangerous.

Violence begets violence, after all. 

It’s an impossible question, one that you are completely unqualified to solve. 

You just wonder how you can protect Javier Peña from the fallout. 

“Ears?” Ana grips your shoulder tightly, startling you from your thoughts as she drags you out of the way of a group of shoppers. You think she’s apologizing to them for you. 

You watch her for a long moment. You wonder what she knows, and what she would tell you if you asked. Then, another thought hits you with all of the force of a fucking freight train. 

_What would you do with this information, once you’d attained it?_

Is your loyalty to Ana Delgado, who has been your friend from the beginning, or to Javier Peña, who is quickly becoming the most important person in your life?

Something twists tight and ominous inside you, and you sigh breathily against the frustrated tears that prickle in your eyes, wishing there was a middle ground, knowing instinctively that even if there were, it would be impossible for you to find. 

Ana’s still looking at you with that funny expression on her face. You take a deep breath, schooling your lips into a grin that you hope is convincing. You take her hand and tug a little. “Sorry about that,” you say softly. “Just got lost in my head for a second.”

Ana’s lips twitch into a tiny smile. “I get it,” she answers somberly, and you believe her. 

You shrug away the last of those deep, lingering thoughts. “How about we hit up those shoes?” you ask, pointing to the display in the distance. You lift one foot, shaking your ratty chucks ruefully. The sole flops pathetically at your toe. “I really, really need an upgrade.”

“No shit.” Ana snorts, folding her arm into yours. “Let’s go, _hermana._ Those are only fit for the garbage, and we both know it.”

You laugh and allow Ana to pull you toward the shoe department. 

* * *

It’s nearly dark by the time you make your way to Javi’s apartment. Ana had presented several pairs of shoes for your consideration, but your eyes had immediately been caught by a single pair of brown leather boots trimmed with fat yellow laces. They’d sat high on the shelf, dusty from disuse, and you’d been delighted to find that, once you’d corralled somebody into helping you pull them down from the display, they were exactly your size.

Ana had groaned, bemoaning your ridiculous fashion choices, but you’d been over the moon. These babies are proper combat boots, made of unyielding leather with solid steel braces. Even the laces are thick, waterproof canvas. 

Once you break them in, they’ll last you a fucking lifetime. 

You’d said goodbye to Ana at the halfway point between her house and Javi’s. It’s a ten minute walk home for each of you, and the sun is sinking low in the sky. You quicken your pace, sweeping your eyes back and forth, back and forth. Javi isn’t due home until tomorrow morning, but still, you want to be safely ensconced in the apartment before true dark falls. 

You aren’t stupid.

You make your way up the stairs just as the last rays of the sun are dimming purple on the horizon. To the west, the familiar pop, pop, pop of gunfire begins. You shudder, turning your key in the lock, resigning yourself to another long, sleepless night in a cold, empty bed.

You drop your bag and stop dead, listening. The apartment is untouched, but something feels off. Those age-old instincts are blaring, and you reach toward the kitchen counter for the gun that Javi had given you, racking the slide, disengaging the safety. 

You glance around. The apartment is dark. Nothing is out of place. 

But something isn’t right. Your brain is screaming danger, danger, danger. 

Behind you, a thump. You whirl, extending the gun, your heart racing out of your chest. 

“Ears?” Javi’s voice floats warily from the bathroom, and you relax, the breath leaving your lungs with a deep whoosh. You click the safety back on, stowing your gun back in its place and hurrying toward your shared bedroom.

“Javi?” you call, feeling your erratic heartbeat speed for another reason. 

It’s been three days. You’ve missed him so fucking much. 

Javi ducks out of the bathroom. His hair is dripping, half of it still peppered with tiny little soap bubbles. A towel is slung low over his hips. “Babe?” he asks, and then you are catapulting into his arms, wrapping your body tightly around his, heedless of the fact that he’s still sopping wet from his shower. 

Javi catches you with a deep sigh. His towel drops to the floor. You wrap yourself around him, feeling something that’s been clenched tight in your belly finally relax at his touch. He’s warm and damp, his heat sinking into your skin, comforting and right. 

“Missed you,” you breath into his chest, and he laughs a little, dropping a tiny, open-mouthed kiss to your exposed neck. 

“Missed you, too,” he mouths against you, gumming gently at the sensitive skin that dances at your pulse point. “So much.”

You pull away, loathe to release contact, eager to see his face. Javi reads you, glances down with eyes that are warm and soft, little drops of shower water still gathered on his lashes. 

“Hi,” you say breathlessly. It’s only been three days, but it feels like a fucking eternity, and your body is aching for him, your mind spinning wildly at his sudden reappearance. You find yourself giggling like a stupid kid. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Javi hums happily, picking you up in one fluid motion. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, dropping your face into the crook of his neck with a huffy breath of relief. 

It’s so good to have him home. “Thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.” 

Javi shudders against your breath in his ear. “Wasn’t supposed to be.” He twists, plants your ass deftly on the bathroom counter. “Feo gave us the slip, the fucker. Wasn’t much else for us to do, so we called it.”

You hum against his chest, your legs still clinging tightly around his hips. “I’m not sorry.”

“I’m not, either,” Javi confesses. His gaze is dark, a little desperate as he takes you in. “Ears,” he whispers. There’s something like an apology in his eyes.

“Shh,” you say, pressing your finger gently to his lips. Javi had been a little weird the last time you’d been together. In the wake of losing Fernando Duque, he’d been, well, needy, you guess is the word. The sex had been rough. Very rough. Javi had treated you extremely delicately afterward, cradling you close as if you’d break at a mere breath of wind, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your face and chest, stroking his hands up and down, up and down your aching body in a tactile apology.

He’d left early the next morning, and you hadn’t seen him since. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you promise, dropping your face to nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. God, he feels so good, warm and damp against your forehead. 

Javi’s eyes blink shut for a long moment, and you reach for his cheek, stroking the rough stubble that’s grown there in the three days he’s been gone. “Hey. Water under the bridge, right?”

“Right.” He says it roughly, still with that pinched expression, his eyes clenched tightly shut. You notice, though, that he relaxes a little as you stroke your fingers through his wet hair, and you count that as a win. 

You reach up, pressing those fat lips to yours in a gentle kiss. Javi’s eyes flutter open, pinning you with an intense stare. 

“I’m thinking takeout tonight,” you confess against his chin. “Didn’t feel like cooking.”

“Cooking,” Javi snorts. “Don’t tease me, Ears. That’s not fair.”

You roll your eyes. “How about _Abasto?_ ” you suggest. “It’s quick, and we both like it.”

Javi huffs a little laugh, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His damp hair drips cold onto your skin, and you bite back a shiver. “You just want a new book, baby,” he teases. “I know how this goes.” His tongue darts out to taste the sharp line of your clavicle, and you can’t help the hot flash of desire that lances through you at his touch. 

God, you’ve missed him.

Javi cradles you close, his embrace possessive and warm, and you wonder if you’re even capable of extracting yourself from his grip to make your way to the phone. 

“Need you,” he breathes into the shell of your ear, and you abandon all thoughts of food, turning your face into his beautiful naked neck and sucking, nipping, licking your way down it. 

Javi picks you up off the counter, all strong arms and lean body as he carries you gently to the bed, laying you carefully on your back. His eyes glitter darkly, his expression raw, enraptured, as if you are the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. 

“Ears,” he murmurs as he presses into you, and you rock gently against him, reveling in the heat of his body as he stretches you to capacity. 

After a long time, Javi twitches, his face contorting into that beautiful grimace of release, and you revel in the view of him coming undone for you, clenching around him until you find your own satisfaction, your hot breaths mingling at your throat as he collapses into your chest, spent and trembling. 

You gather him closer, pressing your lips into his sweat-soaked temple, reveling in the fact that you share such an intimacy with this precious, perfect man. Your heart is so full that it could burst, pretty words of lovestruck admiration dancing uselessly on your tongue. You swallow them back, knowing instinctively that they wouldn’t be appreciated, deciding to just enjoy the moment as it is. 

Your life is perfect just like this. 

Javi sighs deeply, finally pulling away, and you mourn the loss of his heat as he slips from your body. 

“Hungry?” you ask, instead of pulling him back down to you and peppering him with gentle, admiring kisses like you’re half tempted to, schooling your face into an impish grin. 

“Definitely.” Javi smiles, that soft expression that crinkles his eyes and displays his lopsided dimple, and you find your heart, already full to capacity, aching again. 

He must read your hesitation, because he pulls you up, looking at you straight in the eye. “How about we go to Mr. Ribs tonight?” he asks quietly, reaching to tuck an errant curl behind your ear. “I know you’ve got an early flight tomorrow, but,” his gaze falls to the disheveled blankets for just a moment, then flit back to you, resolve flickering behind some shimmering, softer emotion that you can’t name. “I just…” his hand grips yours tightly, squeezing reassurance, encouragement. “I want to take you out, baby.”

Your lips curl into an easy smile. “I’d like that,” you tell him, smoothing that ever-present furrow from his brow with a careful swipe of your thumb.

Javi’s eyes narrow. “I’ll buy you a beer, and then you can tell me what you got up to with Ana today,” he prompts, eyeing you in a way that’s equally watchful and teasing. 

“Oh, you noticed that, then?” you answer, shooting for flippancy and failing utterly. 

“I notice everything,” Javi growls lowly, gathering you into a tight embrace. “I noticed that you went out today.” His hands are dancing across you body, fingers grazing you back and ribs, then coming up to tangle in your hair. “I notice the way way you don’t carry your gun, even when I remind you to.” His voice drops in gentle admonishment, and you wince a little at the implication. But Javi isn’t trying to start an argument tonight. He’s in a good mood, bantering, carrying on. “I definitely notice the way you’re looking at me tonight, like you just can’t get enough of this body.” 

Emboldened and thoroughly lust addled, you rock against him, grinding your hips against his crotch in a way that makes him bite back a groan. 

“Yeah, that.” Javi’s voice is thready, breathless like he’s eager to go again, despite the fact that he’s just been spent. “Just like that, baby.”

You kiss your way up his perfect jaw, lingering at the smooth little patch of skin that refuses to generate any facial hair, no matter how long Javi grows it. “What else do you notice?” you ask in a hushed whisper, sucking at that bare spot with as much enthusiasm as you can generate.

Javi catches your face with a speed that nearly makes you flinch at the ferocity of the movement. His eyes are soft, his grip careful, but still, you are vividly reminded that this is a man who chases down killers for a living, and your heart thunders in your chest, reveling a little in the flirtatious attraction of danger.

But Javi only brushes his lips against your forehead, and and again at each of your cheeks, still again at your nose and chin. “Right now, the most beautiful woman on the continent,” he confesses somewhere at the edge of your jaw. He glances up at you, all shimmering eyes and warm, indulgent expression. “And she’s right here in my lap.” 

“What a lucky guy,” you tease, writhing in a way that angles your hips against his. You feel him twitch in undeniable interest. 

But Javi just gazes at you, all dark, fierce eyes and contemplative expression, and you wonder suddenly what’s going through his head, for him to be looking at you like that. 

Then your stomach growls, loud and insistent, damn near vibrating between you. 

You groan, a little disappointed. “Well, that’s a mood kill.”

Javi laughs, looking brighter than he has in weeks. “I’m taking that as my cue, Ears.” He lifts you up off the bed and plants a quick kiss on your temple. “Get dressed. We’re going to Mr. Ribs.” He shoots you a pointed stare. “No arguments.”

You grin, following him into the kitchen. He’s hunting his cigarettes again. “None at all.”

Javi pauses to nudge your shoulder. “You can even show me those new shoes, babe,” he says, and you realize for the first time that he’d noticed the bag that you’d dropped near the front door. 

Hot shame flushes your skin. There’s something weird about Javi knowing that you’re spending money on frivolous things. Never mind your recent raise, never mind the fact that you’d really needed new shoes. 

Javi flops on the sofa, smoke forgotten for the moment, still ass naked. “You gonna model them for me, or what?”

That flirtatious tone spurs you on, and you peel the packaging away, stuffing your feet into your boots and half-ass lacing the laces. “Tada,” you announce, spinning in a little circle to generate the full effect. 

“I like them,” Javi’s voice is warm with affection, and for whatever ridiculous reason, you believe him. He comes up behind you to pin you to his chest in a fierce hug. “They’re very you.”

“And that’s a good thing?” you can’t help but ask.

Javi smirks against your neck, his mustache tickling your delicate skin. “Absolutely, baby,” he murmurs into your ear. “You are definitely, definitely a good thing.” One hand comes to rest heavily at your hip, long fingers inching, inching, inching toward your inner thigh. 

You spin away. “No,” you laugh, pointing an accusatory finger at Javi, who holds both hands up in mock surrender. “Food first, Javier Peña. Whatever else happens in this apartment can happen once we’re both fed.” You shoot him a devilish wink. “I promise you, it works better for both of us this way.”

Javi sighs a very put upon sigh, but his eyes shine wolfishly as they meet yours. “Fair enough,” he concedes, coming to drop one last wet kiss on your forehead. 

You lean into him, sighing softly, just as he pinches your ass hard. 

“Fuck!” you squeal, reeling back to swat at him, but Javi is gone, already darting into the bedroom and slamming the door behind him. 

You rub the little stinging spot on your butt with your palm, shaking your head wistfully toward the bedroom door, already planning your counter-attack. 

Javier Peña might not know it yet, but he’s just started a war. 

* * *

You wake the next morning nuzzled warm and comfortable into the crook of Javi’s neck, his soft little breaths puffing gently at your bare chest. You sigh heavily, testing each muscle carefully.

Last night had been a hell of a workout, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

Slowly, you extract yourself from where you’re all tangled up in Javi, biting back a shudder as his flaccid cock slips from you. He’d fallen asleep like that, sprawled hot and heavy on top of you. It had felt nice at the time, romantic and intimate in the way that things so rarely are between you, so you hadn’t had the heart to pull away and clean up, choosing instead to curl against his naked body and fall asleep beneath him.

Now you’re paying for it. You move carefully, pausing as Javi shifts and murmurs in his sleep, unable to help stealing a gentle kiss from his temple when he flops over to expose it to your lips. 

It’s so worth it, you think to yourself, waking up all grimy and sticky and kind of gross, just to have this view. 

You run the shower hot, taking time to flex your sore muscles, cleaning yourself with your fingers. This quickly turns into a re-exploration of your memories of last night, and you find yourself chasing yet another release, reliving the high of Javi’s body tangled up in yours, his fingers pumping into you, his tongue dancing around your clit with a dexterity and finesse you hadn’t thought humanly possible.

You finish your shower breathless and dripping, stumbling out onto the tile floor with shaking legs. Even when he’s dead asleep in another room, Javier Peña manages to give you the best orgasms of you life. 

Shuffling through your limited closet, you realize that with Javi’s unexpected reappearance, you’d completely forgotten to do a load of laundry. 

Dammit.

Javi’s been after your for a while to pick up a few more sets of clothes, and you’ve meant to, honestly. You’ve just never gotten around to doing it. 

“Guess Ana and I are due for another shopping trip,” you say ruefully to your reflection. 

The girl in the mirror glares back at you, her wild curls dripping all over the floor, her eyes completely unsympathetic.

Sighing, you reach for yesterday’s pair of jeans, holding them up critically to the light. They look okay. You give them a quick sniff test, grimacing at the fact that you even have to. They smell passably decent, so you tug them on, jumping up and down yank them past your shower damp thighs. You notice that they sit a little strangely on your ass, so you fumble for your back pocket, digging around until you come away with a handful of crumpled papers. 

Frowning, you smooth them out one by one. The first is the receipt for your boots. You chunk it. 

After it comes the flyer from yesterday morning. Adelina Mandes smiles brightly up at you, innocent and unassuming. You shut your eyes, pressing your palm against her printed face. “I hope you’re safe, wherever you are,” you whisper beneath your breath. You’re not one to pray, but something about the spark in this little girl’s eyes implores you to whisper a request to the universe regardless. 

You cannot bear to imagine the horrors she’s facing, if she’s even alive to face them.

Somberly, you unwad the last little ball of paper. This one looks like it’s been washed already, flexing soft and delicate between your fingers, and you have to squint down at it to make out the words printed on it. 

_Fernando Duque._

Your heart stutters to a stop, and you can’t help swinging your eyes to the closed bedroom door where Javi sleeps peacefully.

He’d handed you this slip of notebook paper a little over a week ago, barging into the Centra Spike office with all the enthusiasm he’s capable of exuding on the job. 

“Ears,” he’d said, hunching over your desk, so close that you could feel his body heat emanating from his exposed neck. He’d smelled like sweat and the wind, like he’d just come from outside, and it had tempted you to lick him, to taste the sunlight on his skin. Then Javi’d pressed the paper into your hand, and you’d lost that thought. “I need you to run a search on this man for me, baby,” he’d said, his eyes glittering with determination. He’d bent down, pressed a quick kiss to your temple, then backed away. “I’ve got to go,” he’d apologized, already halfway out the door. “But call me with anything you find, okay?”

You had, and then, three days later, Javi had come home to you, distant and broken and grieving. Fernando Duque had been the latest victim of Los Pepes.

Something cold coils in your chest as you hold the battered slip of paper in your trembling hands. You hadn’t quite put it together until just now, but here it is, more glaring, screaming evidence of a leak in Search Bloc. 

You’d told Javi where to find Duque. He was the only one who’d asked, the only one you’d told. But somehow, Duque had ended up dead just days later, and Javi had come home devastated. 

That old fear comes rushing back, along with simmering, boiling anger. A little over a month ago, you’d been determined to sniff out the leak in Search Bloc, and what have you been doing since? Sleeping, shopping, eating out, fucking…. 

You fold the paper carefully into crisp, neat lines between your shaking fingers. Your eyes cut to the shoebox that lies discarded on the bathroom floor. 

It’s not the most elegant solution, but hey, you're not the most elegant woman. It’ll certainly do for now. 

You sneak into the kitchen, fumbling around in Javi’s junk drawer until you find a pen that writes. On the back of Adelina’s flyer, you write _Duque_. Beneath it, you list all of the dates that you can remember, along with what happened on each day. The information you’d gathered for Javi goes on one line, his departure date to Medellín the next, Duque’s death date on the last. You write quickly, sloppily, engineering your own personal code on the spot. You want to ensure that you, and only you, are capable of gleaning any meaningful information from these notes. 

That done, you cast your mind back to the other stories that have surfaced around the office lately. You can think of several that are suspicious. You busy yourself like that for a while, jotting down dates and times and names in your bastardized shorthand, committing the gist of it to memory and vowing to investigate it properly once you’re back at headquarters. 

Those fuckers aren’t going to get away with this. 

From the bedroom, your alarm chimes, and you grimace. You’d forgotten to reset it when you’d woken up, and now it’s going to disturb Javi. 

Quickly, you pack away your notes into the shoebox and tiptoe back into the bedroom, silencing the alarm and slipping the box beneath your corner of the bed, where it sits unassumingly between two substantial dust bunnies. 

Perfect.

You rise to your knees just in time to see Javi flop over, his eyes fluttering open with a muffled groan. “Ears?” he murmurs, and you can’t help but crawl into bed with him, wrapping yourself into his chest and reveling in his sleepy warmth. 

“Wha time is it?” he slurs into your hair.

You smile against him, again overcome with a flood of emotions for this man. Javi is adorable like this, all soft and warm and sleep-addled. Perfect for cuddling. “It’s early,” you whisper, nuzzling gently against his stubbled cheek, grinning a little at how the tangled blankets have pressed little patterns into his skin. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmm,” he whines, pulling you lazily down so that your nose is smushed against his chest. “Come with me.” 

Christ, if only you could. There’s nothing on earth that could tempt you more, and you curse Pablo Escobar and his fucking narco terrorism for the umpteenth time. You’d spend every morning of your life waking up to this man, if only the circumstances would let you, and you’d be grateful for it.

Somehow, that thought doesn’t scare you at all.

“Can’t, baby,” you apologize by pressing a gentle kiss to the underside of his jaw. Javi wiggles a little, angling into your body as best he can. “I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Dumb,” he sighs, burying his face into his pillow. 

“Totally,” you agree sadly, running your hands through his sleep wild hair wistfully. You sit there for a minute, just petting on him, enjoying the way his dark hair slips silkily past your fingers, watching in satisfaction as his breaths even out into deep, rhythmic sleep.

That familiar emotion wells in you, choking you with the force of a fucking tidal wave, setting your eyes swimming.

“I love you,” you whisper brokenly, hardly aware of the gravity of what’s escaping you. You gasp a little at your audacity, sucking in a breath as if you could call the words back, but they’re out now, and you realize with a nauseating swoop in your stomach that they’re not wrong. 

Not at all.

“I love you,” you say again, testing, reveling in the foreign feel the phrase on your tongue, in the rightness that unfolds in your chest as you speak it. 

Oh, goddammit. Your hands are trembling. Tears are tracking soft and steady down your cheeks. 

There’s no going back from this moment, and frankly, you don’t want to. 

You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning down to drop one last kiss at the edge of Javi’s bare shoulder. “I love you,” you whisper for the last time, breathing it against his skin, willing the words to sink down into him, as if your love could simmer fiercely beneath his surface, protecting him from all of the many threats of a life in Colombia. 

Javi huffs contentedly, and you rise, swiping the tears from your cheeks and steeling yourself for another day on the hunt for Escobar. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, Ears wasn't supposed to use the L word for a long time. But it's my birthday, and I'm feeling soft and needy, so.... yeah. 
> 
> Lots of plot happening here. Keep your eyes peeled, my dudes.
> 
> We are getting into the real meat of the story here. Sex trafficking is going to continue to play a peripheral role in the Better Love series. I promise I will always tag for mentions of this, and I promise that nothing will happen to our characters on screen. You have my word on this, guys, but if you need to duck out now, I totally understand. 
> 
> Mad love and soft hugs,
> 
> Jay


End file.
